I thought I'd throw an appendix into this whole Millhouse story.
Maybe because, in medical terms, it often involves surgery, and so does an encounter with Millhouse.
Or maybe it's because adding an appendix seems so serious. And Millhouse's story is so NOT serious. And so adding an appendix to the Story of Millhouse makes me laugh.
I don't really know why. Add it to the unanswerable questions of the ages.
I thought I'd give Board Members Who Have Encountered Millhouse or BMWHEM's an appendix all their own.
Ron is in this category, one of my most favourite people ever. Ron was a tailgunner in WWII and had quite the stories to tell. He took as many missions as possible, because you got a steak-and-eggs meal before and after each mission. Whenever he shot someone down, he would salute them as they fell from the sky. He believed in showing respect to your enemies.
Can I just tell you, that kind of story is not part of my life experience, and I'm quite in awe of it.
Ron was awesome. When I met him, he was a lovely older gentleman, a Board Member at my church. He had all kinds of grace for me, a new pastor, fresh outta pastor school, full of all kinds of unproven theories and untested philosophies. It's possible that in my youthful enthusiasm and idealism, I was a little annoying. I don't know. Ron never said so, anyways.
Ron and George (another BMWHEM) very kindly renovated our bathroom for us, soon after we moved to town. Newly married, newly graduated, we didn't have actual money, per se, just loads of hugs and coffee for anyone who would help us. And Ron and George were coffee drinkers, so they were happy to come and do our bathroom.
George is the reason for this blog. You can read about that here. He is also one of my very favourite people.
George and Ron could laugh easily at anything. No matter the crisis or disaster, they had seen worse and lived to tell the stories, which they did, often. Usually when they told a story, they would laugh so hard, tears would come down their faces.
I love Ron and George.
(pause to smile at memories)
So anyway - Millhouse. He didn't feel that the bathroom needed renovating. We explained to him that his feelings didn't matter, and locked him in a bedroom. He expressed his displeasure at this by wailing through the door, begging us to let him out. We refused. He then tried hurling himself through the air at the door, over and over again. We ignored him. He went to sleep for a few hours. We let down our guard.
That was our mistake.
While we were relaxing, secure in the knowledge that Millhouse could not attack Helpful Renovating Board Members from behind a closed door, he was developing his skills, testing his prison for weaknesses. If we had been paying attention, we would have seen his little paw sliding quietly under the door, pushing here, pulling there. We would have realized that his brain was at work, devising an escape plan, while he dozed on the bed.
We didn't know. We had only owned this little feline terrorist for a year or so.
Eventually, he got out. Slid his paw under the door, hooked it around the other side, pulled just at the right angle, disengaged the latch, and silently slipped out. Who knows how long he cased the joint, how long he skulked in corners, before making his move. Patiently, he waited, fanning his hatred of Helpful Renovating Board Members into a fiery loathing rage, while Ron and George unsuspectingly worked away, laughing and telling stories, as they installed tub faucets.
Millhouse waited until I was busy making coffee, and Ron was carrying something heavy out of the bathroom, around the corner, and down the stairs. I heard an almighty caterwaul, a crash and a holler, and knew before I started running what had happened. By the time I got there, the counter was in the living room, Ron was on his keister at the bottom of the stairs, and George had collapsed on the floor at the top of the stairs, killing himself laughing, tears pouring down his face.
Millhouse had disappeared in glee, knowing he would become airborn again (see Norm's story here) if I could get my hands on him.
Fortunately Ron lived to laugh again, and he didn't even dock my paycheque or anything.
But forever after that, whenever Millhouse came into his line of vision, I would see a determined ferocity wash across Ron's face, once again a tailgunner with an enemy, and Mill would retreat. You can throw a WWII tailgunner down the stairs once, but don't try it twice - he'll just respectfully salute you as you plunge out of the sky.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
another surprise
You know we've had a few surprises in our yard, since we moved in late last summer. Steel pipes, weird bamboo-like things, and ongoing discoveries of yet another outside electrical outlet.
Found another surprise this morning.
I've been eyeing a hosta that is clearly in the wrong place. Weird too, because there are no hostas anywhere else. And this one is a nice one, but jammed under a shrub and up against a fence. So it's been surviving, but looking a little worse for wear.
As I grab an hour here and there to plant a few more things, I've been making a mental note to transplant that hosta to a place where it will thrive and really look great.
Early this morning, I decided to move it. I was in a hurry, so I trotted over there, and started jamming my little shovel around it, to loosen it from its current position. It wasn't easy. That's some seriously packed down dirt, and it's between a hedge and a rose bush, with a tree right by the rose bush, so there are roots everywhere.
I dug and jammed and grunted and pulled and pushed, all the while trying to keep the dirt intact around the roots so it would transplant well. FINALLY got it out of the ground, and hurried over to the new spot to dig a new home for it.
Except...what's this white stuff around the roots? And why is there a broken piece of clay pot stuck to the side? Did the former owners not even take it out of its pot before putting it in the ground?
Silly people.
The white stuff is weird though, kind of foamy, and it looks like there almost isn't any dirt at all .... taking a closer look .... what the ??? ....
Took my gloves off to actually touch the plant.
It's fake.
Surprise!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Millhouse: The Story, Part 4
Do you remember anything about 1992?
I do.
That was a memorable year for us. We got married on January 4. On January 20, Spike's mom passed away, quite suddenly. I dropped out of school for the semester, because one can only handle so much at a time.
In March or so, we went to Florida for a couple of weeks, leaving our lemon of a car with our friend Norm. We told Norm that if he wanted to total it, he could, because we had been thoroughly scammed when we bought it.
While we were in Florida, Norm got hit by a car, totalling ours, without actually hurting anyone. We were pretty pleased about that, as the insurance enabled us to get a little white Honda Civic hatchback, to this day, my favourite car of all the ones we've had.
We got home, and I got a part-time job that lasted through the summer, while I did some summer school. (Spike was already working full-time.)
Somewhere in there, we got Millhouse.
In August, I started taking my 4th year intensive courses, which lasted for 3 weeks at a time. Norm moved in with us, because we were moving out. We felt we had spent enough time dodging garbage fires in the hall, and we were movin' on up to another place that - oddly - had a hot tub in the living room. For Spike, this was the ultimate dream. Sitting in a hot tub, watching the Leafs at the same time - can life get any better? (Well yes, it can, but that would involve the Leafs actually playing well, and I probably shouldn't wade into THAT discussion.)
We weren't moving out until October, but Norm was in school with me, and needed a place halfway through August, so we decided our friendship could handle it, and Norm moved into our second bedroom.
We love Norm! He commented once, on this blog.
Part-way through September, I had just finished one three-week course, and was getting ready to start another, before going on to a two-month internship. Late one Sunday night, Spike looked at me strangely. He said, "I'm going to pass out," and promptly did. Took him awhile to come to, and when he did, he didn't know who I was, and was swearing a blue streak for no apparent reason. He also threw up in all directions, which was a nice touch.
When the paramedics arrived, they made some assumptions, probably based on the garbage fires in the hall, and figured Spike was on a bad drug trip. I really couldn't convince them otherwise, despite the theology books on our shelves, and our visiting pastor friend in the living room. Finally a police officer arrived, and asked me if Spike would go to the hospital, and I said, "Oh, he's going, whether these guys take him or I do!"
So they agreed to take him, although they wouldn't help him down the stairs, and I think they took the scenic route to the hospital. It turned out he had had a brain aneurysm, and needed to be flown to Toronto right away. I found out later they didn't expect him to survive the trip.
But he did. Don't fret!
(Oh, and the swearing was due to the bleeding in the emotional part of his brain, btw.)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch....
Poor Norm has just watched one of his good friends almost die. Paramedics wouldn't help. Everything is chaos. Pastor friend takes me to the hospital, leaving Norm all alone, totally shaken, with no one around but Millhouse.
Ahhh, Millhouse. Still a kitten, but with an already overdeveloped sense of hostility toward the world in general. He's not happy about the yelling, the strangers, the chaos. Not one little bit.
So Norm, white and shaking, cleans up the apartment. Makes a few phone calls. Goes to bed, because there's nothing else he can do. Replays the scene over and over in his mind. Finally drops off to a restless sleep.
And that's when Millhouse made his move.
He had disappeared in the chaos. Had probably watched balefully from under a couch, while Norm moved around the apartment, cleaning things up. Waited until Norm's bloodshot eyes closed ... then trotted up to the bed and leaped directly onto Norm's face, in his normal, trademark fashion.
My guess is the air turned blue for a second time that night.
And Millhouse learned what it was to fly. He really enjoyed it, I think, until his airborne state was abruptly terminated by a wall.
I'm not sure Norm's ever been the same.
I do.
That was a memorable year for us. We got married on January 4. On January 20, Spike's mom passed away, quite suddenly. I dropped out of school for the semester, because one can only handle so much at a time.
In March or so, we went to Florida for a couple of weeks, leaving our lemon of a car with our friend Norm. We told Norm that if he wanted to total it, he could, because we had been thoroughly scammed when we bought it.
While we were in Florida, Norm got hit by a car, totalling ours, without actually hurting anyone. We were pretty pleased about that, as the insurance enabled us to get a little white Honda Civic hatchback, to this day, my favourite car of all the ones we've had.
We got home, and I got a part-time job that lasted through the summer, while I did some summer school. (Spike was already working full-time.)
Somewhere in there, we got Millhouse.
In August, I started taking my 4th year intensive courses, which lasted for 3 weeks at a time. Norm moved in with us, because we were moving out. We felt we had spent enough time dodging garbage fires in the hall, and we were movin' on up to another place that - oddly - had a hot tub in the living room. For Spike, this was the ultimate dream. Sitting in a hot tub, watching the Leafs at the same time - can life get any better? (Well yes, it can, but that would involve the Leafs actually playing well, and I probably shouldn't wade into THAT discussion.)
We weren't moving out until October, but Norm was in school with me, and needed a place halfway through August, so we decided our friendship could handle it, and Norm moved into our second bedroom.
We love Norm! He commented once, on this blog.
Part-way through September, I had just finished one three-week course, and was getting ready to start another, before going on to a two-month internship. Late one Sunday night, Spike looked at me strangely. He said, "I'm going to pass out," and promptly did. Took him awhile to come to, and when he did, he didn't know who I was, and was swearing a blue streak for no apparent reason. He also threw up in all directions, which was a nice touch.
When the paramedics arrived, they made some assumptions, probably based on the garbage fires in the hall, and figured Spike was on a bad drug trip. I really couldn't convince them otherwise, despite the theology books on our shelves, and our visiting pastor friend in the living room. Finally a police officer arrived, and asked me if Spike would go to the hospital, and I said, "Oh, he's going, whether these guys take him or I do!"
So they agreed to take him, although they wouldn't help him down the stairs, and I think they took the scenic route to the hospital. It turned out he had had a brain aneurysm, and needed to be flown to Toronto right away. I found out later they didn't expect him to survive the trip.
But he did. Don't fret!
(Oh, and the swearing was due to the bleeding in the emotional part of his brain, btw.)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch....
Poor Norm has just watched one of his good friends almost die. Paramedics wouldn't help. Everything is chaos. Pastor friend takes me to the hospital, leaving Norm all alone, totally shaken, with no one around but Millhouse.
Ahhh, Millhouse. Still a kitten, but with an already overdeveloped sense of hostility toward the world in general. He's not happy about the yelling, the strangers, the chaos. Not one little bit.
So Norm, white and shaking, cleans up the apartment. Makes a few phone calls. Goes to bed, because there's nothing else he can do. Replays the scene over and over in his mind. Finally drops off to a restless sleep.
And that's when Millhouse made his move.
He had disappeared in the chaos. Had probably watched balefully from under a couch, while Norm moved around the apartment, cleaning things up. Waited until Norm's bloodshot eyes closed ... then trotted up to the bed and leaped directly onto Norm's face, in his normal, trademark fashion.
My guess is the air turned blue for a second time that night.
And Millhouse learned what it was to fly. He really enjoyed it, I think, until his airborne state was abruptly terminated by a wall.
I'm not sure Norm's ever been the same.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I'm better now
OK, I've recovered from my little rant in the last post.
Just thought you'd like to know.
The continuing story of Millhouse will be coming soon!!
Just thought you'd like to know.
The continuing story of Millhouse will be coming soon!!
systems that don't work
Fractured wrist.
Food poisoning.
Flu-ish feeling.
These are part of my and Spike's world the last two weeks. Which is fine.
But what is annoying me today is social systems that sooooo do not work. Despite everyone's best intentions (see me giving the benefit of the doubt there?), people fall through the cracks. Which some days seem like the size of the Grand Canyon. And I am powerless to do anything about it.
I think, the bigger the system is, the less likely it is to work. That's my philosophy for today, with nothing to back it up except my own gut feeling. And therefore the government systems are regularly scammed by those inclined to do so; and then those same systems punish and refuse to help those that are really trying.
Statements of mass generalities from a frustrated pastor on a Thursday.
Food poisoning.
Flu-ish feeling.
These are part of my and Spike's world the last two weeks. Which is fine.
But what is annoying me today is social systems that sooooo do not work. Despite everyone's best intentions (see me giving the benefit of the doubt there?), people fall through the cracks. Which some days seem like the size of the Grand Canyon. And I am powerless to do anything about it.
I think, the bigger the system is, the less likely it is to work. That's my philosophy for today, with nothing to back it up except my own gut feeling. And therefore the government systems are regularly scammed by those inclined to do so; and then those same systems punish and refuse to help those that are really trying.
Statements of mass generalities from a frustrated pastor on a Thursday.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Millhouse: The Story, Part 3
Not all of you have met Millhouse.
You've probably told all your friends and family about this incredibly entertaining story you've been reading, prefaced with, "I'm sure it's not true, but still...."
For example....
a.s. who has had many encounters over the years with him. As a young adult, she came once or twice to visit her newly married sister, but those visits dropped off quickly. Perhaps Mill assumed no one had told her that the couch belonged to him. Perhaps a muscle twitched in her cheek while she peacefully slept, inciting him to anger. Perhaps he thought we had brought him a super-size play toy. No one knows the rationale in Millhouse's mind when he chooses to leap directly into your face as you gently snore. My theory is that he enjoys the shrieking.
Then there was Amy, who worked with me in Toronto. She agreed to check in on Mill while we were on vacation. We warned her that he was ornery, but Amy's pretty relaxed. We thought she'd be OK. If worst came to worst, we told her to use pillows - he's terrified of them. When we got home, we opened the door to find every pillow we owned strewn around the apartment. Forensic testing later showed that the pillows had been thrown as the victim sprinted backwards through the apartment towards the door. A faint outline of Mill's body hurled against the inside of the door gave a chilling hint of how close Amy had come to never escaping at all.
Don and Stacy (pseudonyms) were cat people, with a feline terrorist of their own. (Hey, do you think the FBI just got notified by an always-active search engine that someone just blogged the word "terrorist"?) Plus there were two of them. ("Them" being Don and Stacy, not FBI agents.) When they needed a place to stay in Toronto, at precisely the same time as we were going away on vacation - that's all we did in Toronto, vacation all the time - well, it just seemed like Providence. One of them - I'm not going to say which one - apparently took quite a shine to wearing my massive Bugs Bunny slippers, which Millhouse wholeheartedly despised. (He loathes all feet in general, never mind feet in slippers with giant eyes and ears.) To this day, we laugh until we cry, at the story of Don (oops, I mean "one of them") trapped on the bed, dancing fearfully in those slippers, while Millhouse malevolently circled the room.
Kelly agreed to check in on him one week, again while we were on vacation. She left a journal of her adventure, which started out with her usual smart 'n sassy, brook-no-nonsense personality. The last journal entry, however, was mostly frightened gibberish, something about "drawing blood". The writing trailed around the page incoherently, instead of her usual tidy, straight lines. We set up a trust fund to help cover the costs of her resulting long-term therapy.
Probably the one who suffered the most, though, was Norm....
You've probably told all your friends and family about this incredibly entertaining story you've been reading, prefaced with, "I'm sure it's not true, but still...."
I assure you.
It is true.
There are witnesses.
For example....
a.s. who has had many encounters over the years with him. As a young adult, she came once or twice to visit her newly married sister, but those visits dropped off quickly. Perhaps Mill assumed no one had told her that the couch belonged to him. Perhaps a muscle twitched in her cheek while she peacefully slept, inciting him to anger. Perhaps he thought we had brought him a super-size play toy. No one knows the rationale in Millhouse's mind when he chooses to leap directly into your face as you gently snore. My theory is that he enjoys the shrieking.
Then there was Amy, who worked with me in Toronto. She agreed to check in on Mill while we were on vacation. We warned her that he was ornery, but Amy's pretty relaxed. We thought she'd be OK. If worst came to worst, we told her to use pillows - he's terrified of them. When we got home, we opened the door to find every pillow we owned strewn around the apartment. Forensic testing later showed that the pillows had been thrown as the victim sprinted backwards through the apartment towards the door. A faint outline of Mill's body hurled against the inside of the door gave a chilling hint of how close Amy had come to never escaping at all.
Don and Stacy (pseudonyms) were cat people, with a feline terrorist of their own. (Hey, do you think the FBI just got notified by an always-active search engine that someone just blogged the word "terrorist"?) Plus there were two of them. ("Them" being Don and Stacy, not FBI agents.) When they needed a place to stay in Toronto, at precisely the same time as we were going away on vacation - that's all we did in Toronto, vacation all the time - well, it just seemed like Providence. One of them - I'm not going to say which one - apparently took quite a shine to wearing my massive Bugs Bunny slippers, which Millhouse wholeheartedly despised. (He loathes all feet in general, never mind feet in slippers with giant eyes and ears.) To this day, we laugh until we cry, at the story of Don (oops, I mean "one of them") trapped on the bed, dancing fearfully in those slippers, while Millhouse malevolently circled the room.
Kelly agreed to check in on him one week, again while we were on vacation. She left a journal of her adventure, which started out with her usual smart 'n sassy, brook-no-nonsense personality. The last journal entry, however, was mostly frightened gibberish, something about "drawing blood". The writing trailed around the page incoherently, instead of her usual tidy, straight lines. We set up a trust fund to help cover the costs of her resulting long-term therapy.
Probably the one who suffered the most, though, was Norm....
Thursday, May 15, 2008
we interrupt this program
I'll get back to Millhouse: The Story at some point. It's too fun to abandon.
But I just wanted to point out the new widget at the left. That's right, I used the word "widget". It shows you how tech-savvy I am.
The new widget at the left is for real. It links you to the Hunger Site, and if you click the link to the left, and then click where it says "Click Here to Give - It's Free" - you will have donated a cup of food to someone who needs it.
It's for real. Wikipedia says so. And so does Snopes. Both fairly reliable sources.
You can check it out yourself, and if you think it's worthwhile, click away. Note: no more than one click a day, so don't obsessively click for 3 hours or something, OK?
As far as I can tell, your identity will not be stolen, nor will your computer be virused to death. If you forward this message to 23 people in the next 7 seconds, nothing especially interesting will happen. Except those 23 people might be annoyed with you. So maybe, don't do that.
And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.
But I just wanted to point out the new widget at the left. That's right, I used the word "widget". It shows you how tech-savvy I am.
The new widget at the left is for real. It links you to the Hunger Site, and if you click the link to the left, and then click where it says "Click Here to Give - It's Free" - you will have donated a cup of food to someone who needs it.
It's for real. Wikipedia says so. And so does Snopes. Both fairly reliable sources.
You can check it out yourself, and if you think it's worthwhile, click away. Note: no more than one click a day, so don't obsessively click for 3 hours or something, OK?
As far as I can tell, your identity will not be stolen, nor will your computer be virused to death. If you forward this message to 23 people in the next 7 seconds, nothing especially interesting will happen. Except those 23 people might be annoyed with you. So maybe, don't do that.
And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Millhouse: The Story Part 2
There were a number of kittens at the SPCA that day.
Two soft grey identical twins, which may or may not have been related. They were sound asleep in a single grey mound. We thought there was only one, and experienced brief horror when we reached in, and the pile of fur separated in two - surely one can't break a kitten in half so easily?? Oh, haha, just joking, of course there were two kittens in there, we certainly knew that.
!
We held them for a minute, all soft and cuddly and sleepy. They didn't mind a bit when we put them back in the cage.
Peered at a skinny, orange one that moved to the back of the cage and stared suspiciously at us. He didn't want to be held. We continued scanning the row of cages in an orderly manner.
But wait, what's that sound down at the end? One little dark grey guy, with white eyeliner, doing anything he could to get our attention. Not at all in an orderly manner. Both front paws shoved through the front of the cage, waving frantically - "Take me! Take me!"
We opened the cage and picked him up, and he immediately grabbed on, climbed up, and hung on for dear life. There was no stinkin' way he was going back in that cage.
We discussed the philosophy of what a "Millhouse" might look like, and came to the conclusion that of all the kittens in the place, this one was the only one who wanted out. All the rest were passive little creatures, happy to end their days in a cage on the second shelf. But this one - oh, he had plans, big plans, things to do, people to see, places to go, and he wanted OUT. This one was definitely Millhouse.
We took him to our little apartment, skirting the garbage fires in the hallway. (Just kidding. That only happened a few times, late at night.) He explored every corner, and was still exploring when I left for my part-time data entry job. By the time I got home, he had fully established himself as lord of the manor, meeting me at the door with an authoritative, questioning air. I showed him my ID, and he allowed me to pass.
It had been a long day. It's tough work selling yourself to prospective owners.
A little more exploring, and then he sat down in the middle of the living room floor, surveying his domain, eyelids drooping. Must ... stay ... awake ... Swayed a bit, and then toppled right over, sound asleep.
Two soft grey identical twins, which may or may not have been related. They were sound asleep in a single grey mound. We thought there was only one, and experienced brief horror when we reached in, and the pile of fur separated in two - surely one can't break a kitten in half so easily?? Oh, haha, just joking, of course there were two kittens in there, we certainly knew that.
!
We held them for a minute, all soft and cuddly and sleepy. They didn't mind a bit when we put them back in the cage.
Peered at a skinny, orange one that moved to the back of the cage and stared suspiciously at us. He didn't want to be held. We continued scanning the row of cages in an orderly manner.
But wait, what's that sound down at the end? One little dark grey guy, with white eyeliner, doing anything he could to get our attention. Not at all in an orderly manner. Both front paws shoved through the front of the cage, waving frantically - "Take me! Take me!"
We opened the cage and picked him up, and he immediately grabbed on, climbed up, and hung on for dear life. There was no stinkin' way he was going back in that cage.
We discussed the philosophy of what a "Millhouse" might look like, and came to the conclusion that of all the kittens in the place, this one was the only one who wanted out. All the rest were passive little creatures, happy to end their days in a cage on the second shelf. But this one - oh, he had plans, big plans, things to do, people to see, places to go, and he wanted OUT. This one was definitely Millhouse.
We took him to our little apartment, skirting the garbage fires in the hallway. (Just kidding. That only happened a few times, late at night.) He explored every corner, and was still exploring when I left for my part-time data entry job. By the time I got home, he had fully established himself as lord of the manor, meeting me at the door with an authoritative, questioning air. I showed him my ID, and he allowed me to pass.
It had been a long day. It's tough work selling yourself to prospective owners.
A little more exploring, and then he sat down in the middle of the living room floor, surveying his domain, eyelids drooping. Must ... stay ... awake ... Swayed a bit, and then toppled right over, sound asleep.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Millhouse: The Story
Since I've been talking recently about our Insane Cat, and since someone wanted to know the origins of his name, and since my life today just isn't that interesting, I thought I'd go back in time and tell you the story of Millhouse. Maybe it will evolve into several posts. Maybe there will be a book, with rights to the movie. Maybe ... but I digress.
In The Beginning
We had been married for maybe two months. Our best friends, who had been married a few years longer than us, had just gotten a cat. It seemed a very grown-up thing to do.
We really wanted a dog, to be honest. But we were broke students, living in an apartment building where people set garbage on fire in the halls (seriously), and we didn't have the time or the money to commit to a dog. Our friends assured us that cats pretty much took care of themselves, didn't need to be trained, didn't need to be walked, and were happy to eat cheap food. Sounded like a good alternative.
So we thought about it, mostly focusing on what name the cat would have. It's important that your pets have a good name. I mentioned that "Puff" was the name of my childhood cat (who ran away - or at least that's the story I was told), and once Spike managed to pick himself up off the floor, and stop laughing and mocking, he respectfully suggested that perhaps we could find a different name for our kitten-to-be.
So, we were standing in line at the CIBC in Peterborough one day.
That's right. Those were the olden days when you stood in line to talk to actual people at the bank. ATM's were new, and only to be trusted for withdrawing $20 every now and then. Certainly not for making deposits, or paying bills. Or trying to explain that we didn't have an alternate address in St. Catharines, and thus we were reluctant to pay the Visa bill for the "Spike" who lived there.
CIBC. Their slogan - "For What Matters". Sub-slogan: "And it's not you".
What was I talking about? Oh yes. Millhouse.
So were were standing in line at the CIBC, discussing names for our new cat. Our theory was we would pick a very cool name, and then find a cat to suit that name. So we threw around a bunch of possibilities, and then we thought of that new irreverent show on TV, which made us laugh a lot. Those of you who are sharp, will notice that I used the word "new" for a show that is now 19 years old.
Disclaimer: If you don't like that particular show, that's OK. We're not recommending it. We never recommend TV shows or movies. It's a good way to lose friends. We'll have grace for the shows you like, if you have grace for the shows we like, OK?
And we started thinking through the characters on that show. Homer? Nope, too bumbling. Bart? Nope, too hostile and mouthy. (In retrospect, that name may have been more appropriate.) Chief Wiggum? Nope. Too many syllables. Millhouse? Hmmm. Loyal sidekick, willing to take chances, but not the ringleader. Fun to play with, cool with just a hint of nerd.
And there in the bank line-up, it was settled. We would visit the SPCA, and find Millhouse.
...to be continued...maybe...
P.S. to "Princess" who wondered why we would name a cat with a name we would not use for a child. We are not of the ilk that considers pets to be comparable to children. All due respect to any humans out there who ARE actually named "Millhouse," including, but not limited to, Richard Milhous Nixon.
In The Beginning
We had been married for maybe two months. Our best friends, who had been married a few years longer than us, had just gotten a cat. It seemed a very grown-up thing to do.
We really wanted a dog, to be honest. But we were broke students, living in an apartment building where people set garbage on fire in the halls (seriously), and we didn't have the time or the money to commit to a dog. Our friends assured us that cats pretty much took care of themselves, didn't need to be trained, didn't need to be walked, and were happy to eat cheap food. Sounded like a good alternative.
So we thought about it, mostly focusing on what name the cat would have. It's important that your pets have a good name. I mentioned that "Puff" was the name of my childhood cat (who ran away - or at least that's the story I was told), and once Spike managed to pick himself up off the floor, and stop laughing and mocking, he respectfully suggested that perhaps we could find a different name for our kitten-to-be.
So, we were standing in line at the CIBC in Peterborough one day.
That's right. Those were the olden days when you stood in line to talk to actual people at the bank. ATM's were new, and only to be trusted for withdrawing $20 every now and then. Certainly not for making deposits, or paying bills. Or trying to explain that we didn't have an alternate address in St. Catharines, and thus we were reluctant to pay the Visa bill for the "Spike" who lived there.
CIBC. Their slogan - "For What Matters". Sub-slogan: "And it's not you".
What was I talking about? Oh yes. Millhouse.
So were were standing in line at the CIBC, discussing names for our new cat. Our theory was we would pick a very cool name, and then find a cat to suit that name. So we threw around a bunch of possibilities, and then we thought of that new irreverent show on TV, which made us laugh a lot. Those of you who are sharp, will notice that I used the word "new" for a show that is now 19 years old.
Disclaimer: If you don't like that particular show, that's OK. We're not recommending it. We never recommend TV shows or movies. It's a good way to lose friends. We'll have grace for the shows you like, if you have grace for the shows we like, OK?
And we started thinking through the characters on that show. Homer? Nope, too bumbling. Bart? Nope, too hostile and mouthy. (In retrospect, that name may have been more appropriate.) Chief Wiggum? Nope. Too many syllables. Millhouse? Hmmm. Loyal sidekick, willing to take chances, but not the ringleader. Fun to play with, cool with just a hint of nerd.
And there in the bank line-up, it was settled. We would visit the SPCA, and find Millhouse.
...to be continued...maybe...
P.S. to "Princess" who wondered why we would name a cat with a name we would not use for a child. We are not of the ilk that considers pets to be comparable to children. All due respect to any humans out there who ARE actually named "Millhouse," including, but not limited to, Richard Milhous Nixon.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
water, water everywhere
I thought you might like a visual of Sign #3.
Here is Millhouse, acting normal. He's just wettin' his whistle a bit. In the shower.
In the shower??!!
Oh, you noticed that's odd. Well, here's the thing. Millhouse has a new thing that is several months old, but it's really getting insufferable. He is drinking GALLONS of water. Which is odd, but fine. However, he is also flooding whatever area he can find.
Here's how.
Do you know the tiles in our basement are actually lifting, because he has pawed out SO MUCH WATER when we're not home? He drags his bowl across the floor, soaking everything in sight, including his paws. Then he walks around the house, leaving nasty little pawprints everywhere.
We have tried a number of solutions. So far, they don't work. I firmly taped his bowl to a rubber placement which I firmly taped to the floor. So now he can't drag his bowl anywhere. So he just upped his efforts into scooping out as much water as possible with his paw. Same results, it turns out. I put a smaller amount of water in the bowl. He drank it all, and then wailed incessantly, like I do when I haven't had a coffee yet.
(Which I have not yet today. I'm out of coffee. Didn't see that coming.)
So I shoved a big bowl of water in the shower for the night. I have no idea what to do next.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
signs of insanity
I'm on the run, but I thought I'd post three possible signs of insanity, just from today.
Sign #1 - There is a new widget on my blog, isn't there? With ratings. I don't know how it got there. I don't know how to get rid of it. I'm not sure I care to open up my crazy ramblings to ratings. But it seems that someone felt I needed a little accountability in my blogging, so there it is. Unless I'm seeing things. In which case, I may be going insane.
Sign #2 - Today's session at the V.I.C. included everlasting discussions regarding the importance of "and" versus "or" in the wording of certain constitutional sentences. Also, a great deal of time was spent going over financial reports. If that doesn't make you want to get yourself sized up for a straitjacket, you have more mental fortitude than I do.
Sign #3 - This sign isn't about MY insanity. It's about Millhouse's. He is exhibiting an all NEW sign of insanity, to add to the numerous, long-term, fully established and confirmed signs of his insanity. But more about that tomorrow. Suffice it to say, I am appearing like a crazy person to anyone looking in the windows, as I lean down to my cat, and say firmly, "MILL!!! STOP IT!!! NO!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU????!!!!" You know, as if he has a clue.
Edit before going to bed: Look at this Blogger announcement that was posted today.
"Some users may be seeing star ratings on their posts without having opted in to this new feature. This is an experimental feature that was accidentally enabled on some users' blogs. We're currently working to remove star ratings on all affected blogs. In the future, you'll be able to choose to opt-in to this feature; it won't appear automatically."
So I am not seeing things. Score one for sanity.
Sign #1 - There is a new widget on my blog, isn't there? With ratings. I don't know how it got there. I don't know how to get rid of it. I'm not sure I care to open up my crazy ramblings to ratings. But it seems that someone felt I needed a little accountability in my blogging, so there it is. Unless I'm seeing things. In which case, I may be going insane.
Sign #2 - Today's session at the V.I.C. included everlasting discussions regarding the importance of "and" versus "or" in the wording of certain constitutional sentences. Also, a great deal of time was spent going over financial reports. If that doesn't make you want to get yourself sized up for a straitjacket, you have more mental fortitude than I do.
Sign #3 - This sign isn't about MY insanity. It's about Millhouse's. He is exhibiting an all NEW sign of insanity, to add to the numerous, long-term, fully established and confirmed signs of his insanity. But more about that tomorrow. Suffice it to say, I am appearing like a crazy person to anyone looking in the windows, as I lean down to my cat, and say firmly, "MILL!!! STOP IT!!! NO!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU????!!!!" You know, as if he has a clue.
Edit before going to bed: Look at this Blogger announcement that was posted today.
"Some users may be seeing star ratings on their posts without having opted in to this new feature. This is an experimental feature that was accidentally enabled on some users' blogs. We're currently working to remove star ratings on all affected blogs. In the future, you'll be able to choose to opt-in to this feature; it won't appear automatically."
So I am not seeing things. Score one for sanity.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
honour where it's due
Two days down, one to go, at the Very Important Conference.
Thought I'd pause a moment to give honour where it's due. Our denominational General Superintendent (i.e. The Big Cheeze) resigned after 12 years in office. Prior to that, he was our District Superintendent. His name is Bill Morrow. We love him. He's moving on to become President of Master's College & Seminary, which is a very good thing, in my humble opinion.
Bill is AWESOME. He's in charge of a lot of things, but he genuinely cares about people, and he's just a regular guy, with a seemingly unlimited number of creative, brilliant ideas that float through his head every day. Incredibly smart AND relational - a rare combination. He has brought big changes in his 12 years, and they have been good changes. I've admired him greatly, both from a distance, and the times when I've been up close.
We just voted in a new guy today - he'll have some seriously big shoes to fill!
Thought I'd pause a moment to give honour where it's due. Our denominational General Superintendent (i.e. The Big Cheeze) resigned after 12 years in office. Prior to that, he was our District Superintendent. His name is Bill Morrow. We love him. He's moving on to become President of Master's College & Seminary, which is a very good thing, in my humble opinion.
Bill is AWESOME. He's in charge of a lot of things, but he genuinely cares about people, and he's just a regular guy, with a seemingly unlimited number of creative, brilliant ideas that float through his head every day. Incredibly smart AND relational - a rare combination. He has brought big changes in his 12 years, and they have been good changes. I've admired him greatly, both from a distance, and the times when I've been up close.
We just voted in a new guy today - he'll have some seriously big shoes to fill!
Monday, May 05, 2008
the key to my heart
I am at a loss. I had plans for today, good plans, productive plans, go outside to frolic in the springtime grass plans. (After taking a Claritin, of course.)
These were important plans, because later today, I am off to a Very Important Conference, where I will have to act all professional-like. That's right. On my Day Off. I have to wear make-up and everything. But that's not until later this afternoon. My wonderful, digging, creative, Garden of Eden plans were specifically timed to give me an extra dose of sanity before heading off to the V.I.C.
(It's at one of the hotels near the Toronto Airport, so that tells you how very important it is.)
Side note: two lil kittens are walking through my back yard right now - cuties!
OK, sorry, back to the plans. They have been derailed. They are not to be. All because Spike has taken the key to my heart.
(Pause for those of you who are romantics to sigh; the rest of you may gag.)
We had a lovely morning together. Then he left for Welland, and by the time he gets home, I'll be gone. So I happily kissed him goodbye, he left, and I ate some chocolate. (It's what I do - don't judge me.) Then I put on my shoes, and gazed joyfully outside at the glorious bag of dirt, just waiting to be shovelled into my front garden, right beside my pots of perennials, waiting to be tucked into a nice mound of dirt. What a wonderful time I am going to have over the next few hours.
Just grab the garage key ... where's the garage key? It must be here somewhere ... Spike was fertilizing the lawn yesterday, he had it last ... don't panic, deep breaths ... check his jacket pockets. Nope. Pants pockets. Nope. Pants in the laundry basket pockets. Nope. Heart pounding, starting to sweat.
Hurry outside - is the key IN the garage door? Nope. In the grass? Nope. Lodged in the perennial pots? Nope.
No, no, no, this can't be! Rush back inside - is it in the freezer? Nope. Amongst the freshly folded socks? Nope. Hidden in the dishwasher? Nope.
So, yes, Spike has taken the key to my heart - otherwise known as the key to the garage - wherein lie all my tools and gardening gloves - thus relegating me to Plan B, which is housecleaning. (Which obviously I am avoiding, by blogging instead.)
It's not going to be pretty at Conference tonight.
These were important plans, because later today, I am off to a Very Important Conference, where I will have to act all professional-like. That's right. On my Day Off. I have to wear make-up and everything. But that's not until later this afternoon. My wonderful, digging, creative, Garden of Eden plans were specifically timed to give me an extra dose of sanity before heading off to the V.I.C.
(It's at one of the hotels near the Toronto Airport, so that tells you how very important it is.)
Side note: two lil kittens are walking through my back yard right now - cuties!
OK, sorry, back to the plans. They have been derailed. They are not to be. All because Spike has taken the key to my heart.
(Pause for those of you who are romantics to sigh; the rest of you may gag.)
We had a lovely morning together. Then he left for Welland, and by the time he gets home, I'll be gone. So I happily kissed him goodbye, he left, and I ate some chocolate. (It's what I do - don't judge me.) Then I put on my shoes, and gazed joyfully outside at the glorious bag of dirt, just waiting to be shovelled into my front garden, right beside my pots of perennials, waiting to be tucked into a nice mound of dirt. What a wonderful time I am going to have over the next few hours.
Just grab the garage key ... where's the garage key? It must be here somewhere ... Spike was fertilizing the lawn yesterday, he had it last ... don't panic, deep breaths ... check his jacket pockets. Nope. Pants pockets. Nope. Pants in the laundry basket pockets. Nope. Heart pounding, starting to sweat.
Hurry outside - is the key IN the garage door? Nope. In the grass? Nope. Lodged in the perennial pots? Nope.
No, no, no, this can't be! Rush back inside - is it in the freezer? Nope. Amongst the freshly folded socks? Nope. Hidden in the dishwasher? Nope.
NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHERE IS THE KEY????
HAS SPIKE INADVERTENTLY TAKEN IT WITH HIM????
WHY, WHY DOES HE NOT HAVE A CELL PHONE, FOR JUST SUCH A TIME AS THIS???!!!
So, yes, Spike has taken the key to my heart - otherwise known as the key to the garage - wherein lie all my tools and gardening gloves - thus relegating me to Plan B, which is housecleaning. (Which obviously I am avoiding, by blogging instead.)
It's not going to be pretty at Conference tonight.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Blissed
They're here tonight! Doors open at 7, with "Voice Among Many" opening.
BYOE (bring yer own earplugs)
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